


Caught On The Horns

by taichara



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 22:11:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11090961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taichara/pseuds/taichara
Summary: Springer's out of his depth, and he knows it -- but he also knows whennotto act on that fact.





	Caught On The Horns

**Author's Note:**

> _prompt:_ "a situation where one feels disgusted with themselves"

It would be so easy; and that thought just would not let him rest.

Just one swift stroke, one small 'accident', and it would be over, and the miserable responsibility along with the recipient of that mercy --

No more pain. No more cursing in the dark, when he thought no one could hear.  
No more bitter humour about the ticking clock.

Except --

_That's not my choice to make._

_Ever._

Not even with one sniper down and rusting in his own frame and the other a gibbering wreck. Not even to stop their agonies.

Primus damn it all, how Springer really, _really_ wished he dared to get himself blitzed out of coherency.   
This was _not_ the kind of command situation he ever -- ever -- wanted to deal with, oh no. Not even once. It was why he kept on with the Wreckers, to avoid this kind of thing.

So much for that plan.

Abandoning his "office", he stalked with heavy-footed tread out onto the makeshift parapet and stared out across the shattered city, the horizon half lost in smoke and corrosive haze ...

_Primus on a spike, no wonder he's rotting from the inside; we're lucky it's not more of us._

And what a miserable way to go, besides. Springer could only hope he'd still get his fondest wish of dying on some fuel-soaked battlefield, and not kicking and fighting against some insidious inevitability that took away all faculties before it finished with you.

_What keeps that ornery bastard going, anyway?_

\-- Oh, but he knew that answer. He knew damn well. A stab of something very much like guilt crackled through Springer's core. Unfair; that was damned unfair, a low blow even for his own worst. Damn it.

But at least he knew his own weaknesses, Springer did. And one of those, at its very basic, was: he never did do well against problems he couldn't meet head-on. And this was one of the worst kind of not-head-on problem.

You can't threaten systems failure with a rifle or a sword.

Slowly, the skyline lit with a sullen red glow, like burning rust, as morning crept closer; a perfect reflection of Springer's guttering mood. He fixed one final, disgruntled glare on the vista and promptly stalked back inside.

It didn't matter how much he didn't like to deal with it.

He _owed_ them, damn it all.


End file.
